


no tears left to cry

by babyboytroye



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Timothèe, M/M, Protective Armie, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Soft Timmy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyboytroye/pseuds/babyboytroye
Summary: “Say it.”“Please Armie. Stop.”“Just say it. He hurts you.” Armie pushes further, warm blue eyes wide with fear of the answer to come. He’s pushing and he’s pushing, waiting for Timmy to confess what goes on behind closed doors. He wants him to tell him every story of each bruise that marks his body. Most of all, he wants to kill the son of a bitch that’s been hurting him.He was ready for the truth to come pouring out. He readied himself for the horrifying stories and the blinding anger that would overtake him; but nothing could prepare him for what would come out of his beautiful boy’s mouth.“He loves me.”Or the one where Timothèe has an abusive boyfriend and Armie just wants his boy to be okay again.





	1. intro

If you asked anyone what they thought about Timothèe, they would say he was the softest boy they’ve ever known.

 

He was all smiles and oversized sweaters and goofy laughs. His eyes were the windows to his soul and he gave everyone the pleasure of getting a peek into his heart.

 

He loved with all of his heart and his being. He loved everyone and everything and truly believed in just love in general.

 

Armie Hammer fell more in love with Timothèe every time he saw him. The boy was just this breath of fresh air. He was a gift to this world and truly a gift in Armie’s life. He knows he will never meet anyone as special as Timmy is.

 

This world was far too ugly and harsh for someone as kind and soft as Timmy was.

 

Timothèe was never good at saying what he felt out loud. People ~~Armie~~ loved his eyes but he absolutely hated them. They betrayed him and made him vulnerable when he just wanted to keep his feelings to himself.

 

He couldn’t mask the pain he felt whenever he saw Armie with Elizabeth. He couldn’t hide the loneliness and love that he felt. He was heartbroken, so broken and lost.

 

Until he met _Kyle_.

 

Kyle with his kind eyes and soft touches and passionate kisses. The one who made Timmy feel like the sun and the moon and the stars. He looked at Timothèe like he was the only one in the room and made him feel like he was worth being with, being in love with.

 

But soft touches turned into bruises in the shape of fingerprints and passionate kisses turned into painful markings. Suddenly, Timothèe didn’t feel like the sun, the moon or the stars. He felt useless and _hideous_. He felt as if he didn’t belong in this word and didn’t deserve any of the love given to him. One day, he felt unloveable. One day, everything changed.

 

 _He_ changed.


	2. he loves me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning — this story is going to get pretty graphic. Kyle is a pretty fucked up human being and does some horrible things. Please read with caution

The first thing Timothèe feels when he wakes up is pain.

 

His limbs are sore and his head is pounding. There’s a heavy arm wrapped tightly around his middle, laying heavily on the dark bruises littering his stomach. It should have comforted him, but instead the feeling of it makes him sick to his stomach. He winces as he attempts to pull away.

 

_Don’t wake him, don’t wake him_

 

He keeps chanting in his head as he tries to move his body as gently as possible. The body holding him lets out a quiet groan, causing Timothèe’s body to run cold with fear. _He’s dead if he wakes him this early._

 

He gives up moving for a moment, instead choosing to look up at the ceiling. His eyes feel heavy and the pounding in his head keeps getting worse. He slowly, _so very slowly_ , reaches a hand up to touch the side of his head. His eyes widen at the sight of his blood on his fingertips when he pulls it away.

 

What the fuck happened last night.

 

He squints his eyes as he tries to piece together the events that took place the night before. His eyes scan the stuffy room, taking in the mess that has become of it. Something shiny in the distance catches his eye, causing him to squint further to make out the object. His face pales when he realizes it’s glass, and his eyes travel up to the mirror that hangs on the wall and suddenly he’s hit with a wave of nausea. The mirror is shattered in pieces and dripping with blood.

 

He needs to be next to the toilet before he throws up all over the place.

 

So he carefully begins to untangle himself from him. His movements are slow and cautious, eyes fearfully staring at the man holding him tightly.

 

After about five minutes of attempting to release himself from his vice-like grip, he limps his way to the connected bathroom in the room. He hisses with each step. Why is he so sore down there?

 

Once he’s made it to the bathroom, he shuts the door quietly behind himself and makes sure to lock it. He’s scared.

 

He shuts his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath before taking a look at himself in the mirror. He gasps in horror once he’s seen the damage that has been done.

 

His hair is matted with blood and his eyes are both dark with bruises. His neck has the shape of a handprint around it, causing him to reach up and ghost his fingers over the mark. His torso is littered with cuts and bruises and his hands are all cut up. He swallows the lump in his throat before looking down between his legs. He chokes out a sob when he catches a glimpse of the blood in between his legs.

 

He doesn’t recognize himself.

 

He bites his lip harshly to quiet the sobs ripping from his throat. He cannot control how badly his malnourished body is shaking and his rapid breathing. He doesn’t recognize himself.

 

He jumps when he hears a harsh knock at the door of the bathroom. He takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to compose himself before unlocking the door and opening it. He’s standing there in only his boxers, dark hair an unruly mess on top of his head. His eyes are dark with hatred as they look down at Timothèe— they’re always looking down at him. Timothèe feels nauseas again when he notices the red scratch marks that mark his skin. He glances down at his hands and sees that his own hands have dried blood in his fingernails.

 

“What have I told you about locking the door?” He’s angry, voice rough from sleep and dangerously low.

 

“I’m sorry—“

 

“Do not speak unless I tell you to.” Timothèe flinches at his harsh voice, crying out when he grabs his thin arms painfully.

 

He bites his lip and fights the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Do not cry. Do not cry.

 

“You’re such a fucking baby.” He spits in his face, angry eyes looking down at Timothèe’s body in disgust. Timothèe’s lip wobbles as a sob tries to escape him. The angry man leans down and lets his lips brush Timothèe’s ear. “I swear to god, if you so much as let one tear fall, I will beat the shit out of you until you fucking die.” A shiver runs down his spine and the hair raises on the back of his neck. “Do I make myself clear?”

 

He nods his head shakily, crying out loudly when his strong hand comes down and grabs his abused ass roughly. He buries his face into the sweaty neck and lets him knead the bruised flesh harshly. He tenses up when he feels his finger shove into the tight ring of muscle, causing him to hiss and bite his lip so hard he tasted his own blood.

 

“Speak.”

 

“Yes sir.” He whimpers when he adds another finger and bites his earlobe roughly. “I understand.”

 

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding once he feels him rip his finger out of him, letting his tense body relax and moving his face away from his neck.

 

He looks down at him with a sneer and shoves him out of the way. “Clean yourself up. You look fucking disgusting.”

 

He can only nod his head in acknowledgment and wrap his arms defensively around his delicate body. He chants the same three words he’s been repeating in his head over and over since he became this way.

 

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

 

And although he avoids saying his name, because this person was not the man he fell in love with, he allowed himself to say it at least once in his head every day to remind himself of a time this man loved him; of a time when he actually recognized the monster looking back at him.

 

Kyle.


End file.
